Sparks and Shells
by amor-remanet
Summary: After the Final Battle, Adam wakes up as Lucifer's captive, and has no idea what to do. Slash, LuciferxAdam; D/s, dub-con, rating will go up in later chapters.


The Apocalypse has been over for two weeks now, and the last thing Adam remembers from before it is beating against the green room door, yelling for Dean to open it up, hearing the archangel's screech and feeling his bones burn and writhe until he said yes...

Everything after that is blank space, punctuated by occasional whispers from Michael that Adam wouldn't have to suffer knowing what his body got used for, or seeing all the demons-inside-of-decent-people's-bodies die at his sword. And he supposes that this isn't such a bad thing. At least he doesn't need to endure nightmares, or think that he was somehow complicit in killing all of those people — he could think that, but it never sticks around when he can't remember their faces, let alone how they died.

As he curls up in the corner of his cell, though, Adam wishes that he had something to cling to. Anything. Even their dying screams, their limp bodies on the ground, and their thick blood running down his hand would be better than sitting on his mattress, leaning his head on the wall, watching the last bits of daylight disappear through the window, waiting for the demon with tonight's dinner to show up.

The door opens, but instead of some black-eyed bastard, Sam walks through it. Except that it's not Sam — it's had a haircut, which seems like something Sam wouldn't do that often, and it's wearing a pristine white suit, which Adam knows that Sam would never wear, and the way it looks at him... The way it tilts its head and stares at him with some glimmering sympathy behind his eyes, it looks like Sam's forgotten how to work his own face — or, rather, that whatever's inside of him just doesn't know how. Never knew how in the first place and won't bother learning.

Both of Not-Sam's hands hold onto a tray, on which sits a cheeseburger, fries, and a can of Coke, and he slams the door behind him with his foot. Adam flinches; he always forgets how quiet it gets when he's by himself — and he shivers... Maybe Not-Sam is a demon. They make the room get colder when they show up, and, really, it doesn't matter. Not that much. Adam draws his knees in closer to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs; huddling for warm, he just wishes that Not-Sam would hurry up and leave. He hesitates a moment, though, letting his eyes drift up and down Adam's body as though they have all the time in the world — and the way Not-Sam looks at him makes something in Adam's stomach knot up and tingle, makes his throat dry up the way it always does when he gets sick.

Swallowing thickly, Adam demands, "Where's Dean?" The way his voice cracks disconcerts him, until he resolves not to think about it.

Not-Sam rolls his eyes, shakes his head. "Of course Michael didn't let you remember anything," he mutters. The soles of his shoes thump like gunshots on the cement floor; the tray clatters as he sets it on the desk; and before Adam can think of what might happen next, he feels icy fingers trailing down his cheek, frigid breath smacking into him...

Adam shivers, tries to resist, but something stirs — there's a cemetery in Lawrence, Kansas... and the '69 Impala sits there, the one John Winchester used to drive, the one Mom loved riding in because it made her feel more glamorous than her little Chrysler ever did... and Dean's there, and Not-Sam, and some guy in flannel and a baseball cap, and some other guy who has a trenchcoat and a Molotov cocktail... and Not-Sam growls; Dean's cocksure expression falters... He calls out, "Cas! Bobby!" to the other two, and the Molotov drops to the ground... There's a flash of fire that reaches to every point inside him, worms so deeply that the ashes from it might just never come out... — everything flashes before Adam's eyes, and when it disappears, he comes up panting like he's just run a marathon. He feels something unlike anything he's felt before.

He shudders as this memory subsides, leaving his mind to his own control. It should give him some comfort, knowing that he's got himself back and that , but all he feels as he looks up into Not-Sam's face is clammy, and helpless, and trembling. And whatever that memory of Michael's was, it makes him recognize the glint behind Not-Sam's eyes: "Lucifer..." he whispers.

Not-Sam nods, and his lips curl into a serpentine smile. The thing, whatever it is, inside of Adam's stomach leaps at that expression; he just feels like he's going to throw up. "You're smarter than your brothers—"

Adam cuts him off: "You don't think you're going to get me on your side with just that, do you?"

"No," Lucifer whispers. He cups Adam's jaw, gently traces up the bone and down the throat, past the collarbone — and only rests Sam's hand when it falls over Adam's heart. The chill goes deeper than anything Adam's felt before; there's a scar on Sam's palm that stings as though Adam's had liquid nitrogen shoved into his veins. His pulse quickens — it can't be healthy, racing so fast — what if he has a heart attack and there's no one here, except for him and Satan, who looks like one of his long-lost brothers but doesn't have even half of Sam's earnestness — and the thing vibrates, spreading a warmth throughout his body that probes around and scrapes at him like the fingers and teeth of the ghoul that ate him.

Lucifer tilts Sam's head, examines Adam with a scientific detachment. "No, no," he says. "I harbor no delusions of being able to sway you like that. You Winchesters are too strong-willed to be bought off so easily. I flattered Sam in his dreams for months, and he still resisted... right up until the end."

This thought turns Adam's stomach. Sam got raised a hunter — their father trained him for this kind of thing, trained him to resist dark forces and put them down for the greater good. He grew up hounded by evil and fighting it... If he couldn't resist, then how does Adam stand any kind of a chance — especially when he doesn't know what the Devil wants from him, why he's still alive, or why Lucifer's fingers tighten on his muscles and why this makes the thing yearn to be closer to him, even as Adam tries to shove himself further into the corner? It doesn't work; he still tries. Anywhere is fine with him, as long as it's away from his captor.

Lucifer removes his hand, and runs it through Adam's hair instead. It feels too good, too much like how Mom used to brush her fingers over his head while putting him to sleep. "You think too much," Lucifer tells him, with a slippery smile.

"Where's. Dean?" Adam demands again. He tries to keep his gaze steely, to make up for the way that his voice keeps cracking, but something about how Lucifer looks at him now says that this isn't working. Satan finds him cute, amusing. Like some puppy that's just pissed on the carpet.

"Oh, he's alive," Lucifer says. "I don't know where he is, unfortunately — he's branded with an Enochian protective sigil. One of Castiel's better ideas—"

"You mean the dude in the trenchcoat?"

As though he hasn't heard Adam at all, Lucifer continues: "But, really, it won't make a difference. They can keep fighting, but this world belongs to me now. And you..." His hand returns to Adam's chest, and grips him tight. "You remind me of someone I loved very much. And I know Sam would prefer it if you got to keep your life—"

"Wait, you loved someone—"

"And I might yet find a use for these..." He twists his fingers into Adam's skin, and makes the thing start leaping around. "So you can stay. For now."

"For now?" Adam hates the way that his voice cracks, but he doesn't have any time to think about it, or about the fact that his survival hinges upon something so tenuous as what the Devil feels like when he wakes up in the morning — before he has the chance, Lucifer's lips collide into his own. The kiss comes in long, slow motions of mouth on mouth, and shuddering, Adam yields and reciprocates. He ignores the way that the thing flares up, the way the rest of him tries and fails to writhe out of Lucifer's reach. The struggling only earns him Lucifer's lips on his wrist — a wet kiss, full of teeth and tongue, the full effect of which is nothing short of searing pain.

Lucifer chuckles, as he pulls away. "We'll go over the rules you'll need to follow later, Adam," he says, and ghosts his hand down over Adam's cheek again. "For now, just eat. And rest. You humans are such fragile little things."

And, with that, he disappears, leaving only the sound of rushing wings and the imprint of his fingers over Adam's heart. Adam bites on his lip so hard that he thinks he might bleed. He ignores his dinner for now and tries to sleep instead. At least, if Lucifer comes after him in his dreams, it's better than being here and being helpless.


End file.
